


Your Hands in Mine

by TheRantDragon



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: F/M, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 12:46:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17662916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRantDragon/pseuds/TheRantDragon
Summary: “Give me your hand.”“Left or right?” she asks mock politely, eyes batting. He snorts.





	Your Hands in Mine

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine in this fic that Wally and Artemis are at a point where they are fairly obviously flirting but still not quite brave enough to admit their feelings. I imagine this is how they would have been between the end of Usual Suspects and before Auld Acquaintance, if they'd had the time.
> 
> Based on my own terribly dry, cracked hands during winter time. Gets so painful sometimes.

The air is sharp and crisp. Each lungful of winter air feels as though it forms tiny ice crystals within her lungs, clinging there until they burst forth in a white cloud of exhale before her squinted gray iris. 

She draws the bowstring back, knuckles cracking and bleeding from the action, but she pays it no mind. It’s early morning and flakes of light snow grasp madly at her eyelashes as they float down lazily. The sun is bright and blinding, reflecting into her face from the frozen cars and ice below, making her aim tricky.

But Artemis Crock is no stranger to the elements playing against her bow. She aims true from her perch, her lip quirking with satisfaction when she hears a cry of dismay from the netted enemy who had been attempting to escape from her Team. She’s drawing another, intent on grappling to the next roof over to keep up with the pursuit across Gotham, but a rush of cold air and wet droplets halts the action.

“Need a lift, beautiful?”

She looks at him, all red hair, cheeks, and nose. Puffs of air roll passed his lips at a fast rate as he extends one hand out to her, grinning. “Nice shot, by the way.”

“Thanks,” she tells him, smiling; and maybe it’s just the adrenaline talking, but he looks radiant. She puts her grappling arrow back in her quiver and reaches out, intent on taking his proffered hand. But Wally’s green eyes are suddenly glued to the surface of her hand, brows furrowing as he grabs it in both of his own, bringing it close to his face for inspection. Artemis raises an eyebrow, curious at his actions (she really hopes the frigid air is concealing her faint blush well enough).

“Artemis,” the speedster says in a chastising voice. He lifts her other hand and tilts them both back, showing them to her with such a disapproving look on his face that she almost wants to laugh. “Didn’t Black Canary give you some kind of salve for this?”

She observes her hands. They’re as normal as ever, save for the dry, cracking skin. There’s a fresh cut along one of her bony knuckles. She shrugs.

“Tried it. Didn’t work,” she tells him, pulling her hands back and rubbing them subconsciously. Wally pushes his goggles away from his eyes, glaring at her.

“And by tried it, you mean you used it the first day she gave it to you and then never again. Right?”

Artemis looks away from him, scowling. 

“Artemis!”

“Wally, are you trying to be my parent or something? Not that it’s any of your business, but I just keep forgetting to put it on! That’s all,” she says flatly, daring him to say anything else to her. Their breaths flare out in cold silence for a moment, her eyes drawing down to the streets. Their comrades and their quarry are long gone. “We better catch up. You still offering a ride?”

She puts her hand back out, raising an eyebrow at him. Sighing, Wally ignores her hand and scoops her up into his grasp. At the familiarity of the situation, her arms automatically encircle his neck, her breathing becoming shallow through her nose so she doesn’t intoxicate herself with that damn fresh laundry smell he seems to carry even when he’s gross and sweaty after a mission. She kind of hates that he can do that.

“When we get back to the Cave, I’m rubbing that salve on your hands  _for_  you,” he hisses. Before she can open her mouth to protest the idea, he rockets off on a dime, stealing the breath from her iced over lungs and leaving her words on the rooftop.

~~~~~~~

She watches him gingerly unscrew the lid on the tub of salve. When it’s gone, the strong smell of cinnamon and some kind of spice assaults both of their nostrils. They’re in the living area of the Cave, No Signal buzzing in the background where Conner left it before they went on their mission. Both their cowls are pulled back and their gloves are gone, giving full bare to the extent of Artemis’s pitiful hands. She hadn’t meant to let them get so bad; it was the same story every winter, only this year Black Canary had gotten on her about it way before Paula.

“Either of you guys want some hot chocolate? Megs is making some,” Robin asks from the kitchen counter, waving at them to get their attention. Wally perks at the offer.

“Oooh, yeah! Make it three for me!” 

Robin smirks, clearly not surprised. “What about you, Artemis?”

“I’ll take one. Hold the marshmallows, please,” she tells him. Robin gives a thumbs up and turns back to the others, who are chatting and laughing around the stove. Wally, meanwhile, gives Artemis a rather scrutinizing look.

“What?” she asks.

“No marshmallows? Who doesn’t like marshmallows in their hot chocolate?”

“I don’t.”

“That’s just plain un-American,” he grumbles to himself, scooping two fingers into the thick, pasty salve. Artemis snorts, smiling a little despite herself. 

“Okay, Kid American, if you say so,” she jokes, and doesn’t miss the smirk that pushes his freckles up even though his head is bent over the jar. 

“Give me your hand.”

“Left or right?” she asks mock politely, eyes batting. He snorts.

“Let’s shake things up and go with the left first.”

“What if I’m left handed?”

His face shows genuine curiosity.

“Are you?”

“I’m ambidextrous,” she informs him, extending her left hand. “But I prefer my right.”

“Hm. Interesting,” Wally murmurs, cupping her hand in his own. His palms are warm and send spiraling heat through her fingers, making her smile against her will. He smears the paste thickly on her hand, and she blanches at how cool it is in comparison to his warmth. He works gently, smearing the salve along her fingers, her knuckles. Her cheeks tingle a little as he pushes his calloused digits down between her own to get the healing goo between them. 

“Boy this stuff is potent,” he remarks, rubbing the pads of his fingers against her own in soothing circles. “You’re probably going to have a permanent cinnamon smell or something.”

“Only if you cake anymore of it on. Jesus, Wally, you’ve already used half the tub!”

“Good!” he declares, squeezing her hand pointedly. “I’m sure Black Canary can get you some more, easy. Besides, you should be putting this stuff on every time you get done training or washing up or whatever.”

“That’ll happen,” Artemis says quietly enough to herself that Wally doesn’t notice. Things go quiet between them while he works, rubbing unnecessarily into places that have already had their fair share of salve. She accounts it to him being overly worried about the state of her hands, but she can’t help but feel he’s stalling. Stalling for what, she doesn’t know, but she happily relaxes into his grip.

She hears the sounds of the others laughing and moving around in the kitchen, but after a bit they go rather abruptly quiet. Wally doesn’t seem to notice, but Artemis glances over. 

They’re watching. Well, Zee and Robin are. They’re already clasping hot mugs, leaning their elbows on the counter and smiling smugly at the scene on the couch. When they catch her gaze, they both lift their mugs in a ‘cheers!’ gesture, causing the archer to whip her head away, heat flaring unbidden in her cheeks.

Artemis clears her throat.

“Sooo, is this going to become a thing?” she blurts out without meaning to as he finally finishes one hand and switches to the other. She chokes a little and tries to salvage the situation by adding, “Because I’m still not going to remember to put this junk on, you know.”

Wally looks up at her, his face a bit of a mask, which is surprising considering how much of an open book he can be. Then he shrugs, attention dropping back down to his work; he’s very thorough, pressing his thumbs along her olive skin long after the salve has rubbed itself away, intent on getting it deep into her dried out pores. She likes the way his hands dwarf hers.

“If you want me to.”

It feels like a loaded statement, and Artemis isn’t sure why. She doesn’t answer him immediately, choosing to weigh her options. On the one hand, saying no will mean her hands will spiral into a worse state and not heal until well into spring; on the other hand, saying yes means having Wally’s surprisingly gentle hands on hers every single day after training, after showers, after missions. Saying yes means more time, more contact with Wally West. 

And somehow, Artemis is entirely okay with that.

It’s not until he’s done and screwing the cap back on that she gives him her answer.

“I would like that.”

And if maybe Artemis takes a few unnecessary showers in the weeks after, if she schedules a few extra training sessions in, it’s purely coincidence. 


End file.
